


The kind of boy designed to be kissed upon the eyes.

by SorryFreudianSlip



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Illya is a confused little puppy, Jealousy, M/M, Swearing, but its not explicit at all, everyone loves him, it all works out, kind of tiny tiny tiny bit sexual content?, like seriously not at all, little old ladies love illya 2k16
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 14:41:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4839221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SorryFreudianSlip/pseuds/SorryFreudianSlip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over the long months spent with this rag-tag trio, Napoleon Solo has learned a few things. Gaby will only eat cake if it’s from Germany, and Illya will only drink (just a little) vodka if it’s from Russia. They both know some ballet (though Illya is quick to admit that she’s the greatest dancer he’s ever seen) and will invite Napoleon along to whatever French monstrosity they’re obsessed with this week. Honestly, they’re too kind.</p><p>Napoleon has also learned that Illya Kuryakin is fucking adorable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The kind of boy designed to be kissed upon the eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Much More, from The Fantasticks! Enjoy!

 

   Over the long months spent with this rag-tag trio, Napoleon Solo has learned a few things. Gaby will only eat cake if it’s from Germany, and Illya will only drink (just a little) vodka if it’s from Russia. They both know some ballet (though Illya is quick to admit that she’s the greatest dancer he’s ever seen) and will invite Napoleon along to whatever French monstrosity they’re obsessed with this week. Honestly, they’re too kind.

 

   Napoleon has also learned that Illya Kuryakin is fucking adorable.

* * *

 

   It all started with some little old ladies in France. The team was posted in Provence, as whispers of a Paris-Marseille autoroute began to travel through Southern Europe. Many Europeans had taken interest to the beautiful, albeit war torn region, which had given way to tensions among the people of France and the visiting German and Italian tourists. Behind the scenes, of course, their governments had begun trading money for uneasy alliances and workers, and U.N.C.L.E.’s best and brightest were hanging around to ensure smooth sailing for the French reconstruction.

 

   In other words, it was vacation time. Napoleon wouldn’t admit it, but he loved missions like this, where he could snag the attentions and bracelets of beautiful French women, help pick out lipstick and scarves for Gaby, and watch with glee as Illya was forced to try sweets and honey-cakes made by the little old ladies of Provence.

 

   “Oh, he looks just like Phillipe, may he rest in peace! Doesn’t he, Véronique?”

   “ _Non_ , _non_ , like my old boy, Albert! See those pretty blue eyes?”

   Illya looked at Napoleon with something akin to desperation, blinking twice. The thick, Provencal accents almost sounded German. Illya had never been good with French. Napoleon swirled his Pastis with a grin, as Gaby hid her laughter with a bite of Macaron.

   “Pardon, dear,” Because _of course_ Illya called her dear. “but, ah, my wife is waiting…”

   “Wife?” She squawked, looking around.

   “Yes, and her brother, they visit for the summer.” Illya said, relaxing as he slipped back into those practiced lines.

   “Well, we must meet her.”

   “Yes! See if she’s good enough for such a sweet boy.” Véronique pinched his cheek and kissed it. Illya blushed to the tip of his ears, his shoulders bunching up to his neck. “Well, lead on, sir!”

   Illya stretched his long legs as he got up from the fountain, looking to Gaby with a sheepish grin. She smiled, and tugged Napoleon along after her. Illya bent at the waist to help the first lady up, who smiled and swatted at his rear. Illya let out what could only be described as a squeak, his blush growing a shade darker.

   “Iosef, Iosef!” Gaby cried. “You must try these macarons!”

   “Mine are better.” The other lady grumbled.

   “I promise to try some, dear.” Illya said earnestly. She giggled, smacking him on the arm.

   Napoleon laughed, charmed in spite of himself.

* * *

 

   “That tenor is totally hungover.” Napoleon whispered. Gaby smirked. To be completely frank, Napoleon didn’t have much patience for the opera. He had more interest in the rich and lonely ladies who attended them, who spoke with gravitas and tossed their hair when they laughed. Napoleon was somewhat comforted by the fact that Gaby didn’t seem too interested either.

   Illya, on the other hand, was completely entranced. The moment they walked in he had stared up at the chandeliers and marble steps, muttering about capitalist wastefulness. It didn’t have any affect on how bright his eyes were, nor how he tapped his finger on his thigh to the beat of the overture, for once not in rage. He had his hand squeezed around Gaby’s arm in anticipation. He mouthed along to the aria sung by the tall brunette on stage, looking personally offended when she came in a tad too early.

   “She’s not...light on her feet, is she?”

   “I met her once at a ballet,” Gaby said, sighing and settling back in her chair. “She was a bit of a-yes, Illya, It’s the finale.” Illya had begun poking her shoulder in excitement, with a wide grin on his face. The chandelier threw shimmering highlights into his hair and his eyes. His smile sat just a bit lopsided and too wide for his face. God, but Napoleon could fall in love with him... Illya blushed a bit at his staring, turning back to the stage and taking Gaby’s hand in both of his.

   “He’s a strange boy, that Peril.”

   “Well, he is cute. I’ll allow it.” She nodded imperiously. Napoleon nodded along with her, pursing his lips. They held each others’ gaze for a moment, and burst into giggles.

   The rich folks gave them some dirty looks while Illya stared at the man on the stage. He was completely starstruck.

* * *

 

   “Solo!” Gaby hit him on the head with her handbag. Napoleon and Illya made a noise of protest. That bag was a work of art. “Stop stealing things from the museum!”

   "I’m going to put it back. The candlestick, though…”

   “Solo.”

   “Well, who’s going to miss it? They’ll be so happy to have their painting back, won’t they?”

   Illya’s hands were gentle on the twine, unwrapping the brown paper with utmost care. Curious.

   “My walls are bare, Gaby.”

   "And they will continue to be. Illya, how could you let him-”

   She trailed off. Napoleon looked up from his brandy. “Hm?”

   Illya looked young. Whole. His hands were gentle, toying with the corner of the brown paper. He cocked his head at an angle, letting his brow furrow and the corner of his eyes crinkle. His lips twitched, and he looked up at Napoleon. Something inside Napoleon melted, somewhere several shades below desire.

   “This painting. I like.”

   “Nocturne in Black and Gold.” Napoleon drawled, trying to drown out his thudding heart. “The Falling Rocket. Didn’t take you for a fan of Whistler, Peril.”

   Gaby walked to Illya’s side, resting a hand on his shoulder. She peered down at the painting, and Napoleon’s heart clenched. He’d have sat on the arm of the chair, and drawn Illya’s head close to his chest. He’d have traced those lips with his thumb, and hung the painting over their bed-

 _Jesus_. Napoleon took a too-large swig of brandy.

   “You’re taste. It...okay, Cowboy.”

   Illya nodded at him, his eyes flickering up to trace his jaw. Napoleon bit out a grin.

   “I’m flattered, Peril.”

* * *

 

   “Smooth, Peril.”

   “Quiet, Cowboy.” Illya was blushing, scowling, as his shaking hands rubbed down his thighs. Napoleon let himself watch for a moment, as his mouth moved without thought.

   “Good ‘ol KGB didn’t train you for that?”

   “Not specialty.” Illya growled. “You are more suited.”

   Illya collapsed into his chair, soothing his shaking hands by setting up his chess pieces.

   “Too kind, too kind. It’s a good thing she had a weakness for Russians. Well, Russians and Tequila.”

   Illya didn’t dignify that with a response, setting his elbows on his knees and his gaze on the board. Napoleon considered him.

   “May I have this game?”

   Illya just looked at him.

   “What were you saying about my skill set? Psychology, enticement, seduction…” His tongue curled around those words, hoping for a reaction. “I bet I can put up a good fight.”

   Illya raised an eyebrow, and a corner of his mouth. His eyes were...almost playful, as he gestured to the chair in front of him.

   “Alright then, Cowboy.”

   He beat him in 6 moves, though to be fair, Napoleon got distracted by those hands of his, those eyes.

* * *

 

   Napoleon woke with a groan, his temples pounding and nose itching. He heard rustling and clanging in the kitchen, smelled rich chocolate and caster sugar mixed with sea salt and smoke-

   Smoke. Fire.

   Napoleon bolted upright, moving without thought. He rushed into the kitchen, to see Gaby holding a pan outside the window as Illya dug through the pantry.

   “Morning.” Illya said, with a glance. He froze, his eyes going wide and a blush creeping up his neck. He resumed his search, ducking his head back inside the pantry.

   “Illya, stick to baking.” Gaby said, putting the pan in the sink and turning on the tap. The cold water bubbled against the hot pan, obscuring her face in steam. She pouted, rubbing the condensation off the woodwork before giving up. “And for the love of all that is holy, will you put on some clothes?”

   Napoleon remembered his missing shirt, shoes, and pants. Illya dropped something in the pantry, swearing in Russian and banging a pot. He stepped into the kitchen with a piping bag and a metal tip, ducking his head and looking at his shoes.

   “What, not enjoying the view?”

   “Oh, I didn’t say that.” Gaby smiled. Illya’s head snapped up to look at her in alarm. She laughed, brushing the hair out of his eyes. She retrieved a bowl filled with chocolate frosting and began scooping it into the piping bag.

   “Making a cake?” Napoleon said, stretching languidly in Illya’s line of sight. “Ah, I could kiss you.” Gaby’s grin was all teeth, setting the bowl to the side. Napoleon walked over to Illya, who was suddenly fascinated by the knot on the piping bag.

   “Oh, Peril?”

   Illya looked straight at his chin, biting the inside of his cheek.

   “You have a little…” Napoleon licked his thumb. He reached down to rub at Illya’s cheekbone. Illya sighed, shaky, closing his eyes and leaning into his touch. Just a little. Gaby sat in Illya’s lap, taking the bag of icing and putting it on the counter.

   “Stupid American,” Gaby huffed. “It’s right here.” She kissed him on the nose. Illya had a small, silly smile on his face. Napoleon bent down to kiss the corner of his mouth, his hand sliding down on Illya’s back. And a bit lower. Illya’s eyes slid open, glazed slightly. He bit back a groan. There was a small “fwoosh” noise.

   “Christ! Can we not set fires this early in the morning?”

   Gaby groaned, nuzzling into Illya’s neck.

   “Ah...” Illya said, helpfully. He shrugged. _This man will be the death of me_ , Napoleon thought. He didn’t really mind.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, sweet Illya. My tiny man. I know nothing about French history, or how to play chess. 
> 
>  
> 
> Talk to me about these nerds at sorryfreudianslip.tumblr.com !


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